


evenings, mornings, afternoons

by Ark



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, Casual Sex, Coffee, First Time, Fluffy, M/M, Modern AU, No Angst Challenge, Oral Sex, PWP, Reincarnation if you squint, all of the sex, lots of coffee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-29
Updated: 2014-11-29
Packaged: 2018-02-27 11:19:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2690984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ark/pseuds/Ark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is following him, and Grantaire’s heart is hammering in his chest. What does this mean? Does it mean coffee? Could it possibly mean sex? Anyone else trailing him after a night of carousing and Grantaire would say yes, but this is Enjolras. Enjolras is the Holy Grail and the Anti-Sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	evenings, mornings, afternoons

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my dear [barricadeur](barricadeur.tumblr.com) for cheerleading the inception of this and my sweet (R)ebecca for asking for Enjolras/Grantaire without angst. Come kaffeeklatsch with me on [tumblr](http://et-in-arkadia.tumblr.com).
> 
>  
> 
> For I have known them all already, known them all:  
> Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,  
> I have measured out my life with coffee spoons
> 
> \--T.S. Eliot, _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_

Grantaire is the last dropped off; he claims shotgun and promptly falls asleep against the window. Enjolras, designated driver extraordinaire, takes everyone to their doorstep and waits to see them inside. He kills the engine in front of Grantaire’s.

“Grantaire. C’mon.” Enjolras’ hand warm and insistent on his shoulder. “Last stop. Up and at ‘em.”

Grantaire blinks his eyes open. Enjolras sits next to him, illuminated in the light from the street-lamp. He is so beautiful that Grantaire can’t say anything, and then he says what he shouldn’t: “You want to come inside?”

“I should be going,” Enjolras answers, polite. Yet the hint of hesitation allows space for Grantaire to maneuver. It’s not a flat-out denial, as per usual.

“Cup of coffee, on me,” Grantaire offers, approximating sober. “I have a new French press.”

“Well--”

“I take that as a yes,” says Grantaire, getting out of the car before Enjolras can say nay. 

Enjolras climbs out also, slamming the door with a wary expression. He puts his hands in his pockets.

“One cup,” promises Grantaire, and now he sounds far more confident than he feels. What the hell is he playing at? He leads the way up the stairs to his apartment, trying to remember the state he left it in. 

Enjolras is following him, and Grantaire’s heart is hammering in his chest. What does this mean? Does it mean coffee? Could it possibly mean sex? Anyone else trailing him after a night of carousing and Grantaire would say yes, but this is Enjolras. Enjolras is the Holy Grail and the Anti-Sex. 

Grantaire can’t think straight. He focuses on turning on lights in the hallway, a long space lined with his prints. He keeps the lights low. 

They head into the kitchen, where Enjolras draws out a chair and Grantaire unzips his jacket and hangs it up. That’s when Enjolras also shrugs out of his coat, like he’s staying a while, and hands it to Grantaire.

“So, uh, welcome,” says Grantaire, his voice rougher than after chain-smoking, which he wishes he could do. He decides he shouldn’t speak for a while. He hangs Enjolras’ coat beside his in the closet. He asks Enjolras an impertinent question about one of his favorite causes. He hurries to set up the coffee while Enjolras holds forth. 

Grantaire bangs the kettle into place on the stove. He finds his best coffee in the freezer and grinds it up, glad for the fresh, restorative scent. He pours them both glasses of water while they wait for the water to boil. He’s feeling more and more clear-headed as the alcohol burns off; what he really wants is a drink, but the coffee prep is grounding.

Finally he fills the French press with swirling grounds and steaming water, and carries the lot over to the table. Enjolras is blessedly still talking, and talks on until it’s time to push the plunger. 

Grantaire doesn’t imagine it: Enjolras trails off and watches him as he presses slowly down, trying to keep the motion firm and the brew even. Rich dark water remains in the wake; it looks enticing, at least, and Grantaire doesn’t think his hands are shaking much. After a moment to steep, he pours out two cups.

He knows how Enjolras takes his coffee: black. It’s one of the only points they agree on. A good pour is ruined by sugar and milk-products. At least Enjolras will appreciate his fancy beans. 

Enjolras accepts the mug, inhales the smell of faint steam like a proper aficionado. He sips slowly, then smiles. “Wonderful.”

Grantaire can breathe again. They’re having coffee. “Thanks.” He takes a sip, and it's quite good, one of his best attempts; that’s enough to sustain them another minute. Then Grantaire finds he’s at the end of his rope. He has no idea what to say or what to expect, which way to go. He squints at Enjolras. “What are you doing here?”

Enjolras appears unruffled. “I was invited for coffee.”

“It’s three in the morning,” points out Grantaire.

“I thought you might want to have sex,” says Enjolras. He lifts the mug to his lips and swallows more coffee.

Grantaire nearly chokes on his. He blinks. “Is that, like, on the table?”

Enjolras has mastered staring. He won’t look away. “I’m here sitting at it.”

“True,” reasons Grantaire. “True. The question remains why you are here tonight, of all the nights I’ve asked you in.”

“You didn’t offer coffee before.” Enjolras’ lips quirk. He will say no more.

“Remind me to stock up on beans,” says Grantaire. He drains his cup, despite the heat, then sets it down. “Are you done?”

“Yes.” Enjolras echoes his motion.

Grantaire gets to his feet, pushes in the chair, and goes headlong for the bedroom. If he stops to see if Enjolras follows him, all is lost. His life is ridiculous, a myth.

At least his bedroom is somewhat pleasing; he likes to have people here. The room doubles as his art studio, and is large, with a huge floor-to-ceiling window where the easel is set up. The wooden bedstead is an indulgence. It has a wide mattress and dark green sheets. They’re untucked, but the bed isn’t messy. This morning, Grantaire left the room with half a mind of bringing someone back to it, but he never dreamed it would be Enjolras.

Okay, he’s imagined it. But he didn’t really think --

There’s a faint glow from the streetlight outside the unadorned window. Grantaire leaves the lights off. He wishes he had a spotlight to trace the sight of Enjolras pacing through his bedroom, taking in the artistic sprawl. Then Enjolras comes back towards Grantaire and stops before him.

Grantaire intends to go slow, but faced with Enjolras in the dark, the plan reverses. He all but falls to his knees. Enjolras’ belt and jeans and boxer-briefs -- black -- are wrenched away, and Grantaire buries himself in the blowjob. Enjolras exhales his name.

Grantaire licks up and down Enjolras’ cock, such a gorgeous cock, half-hard for Grantaire already. He licks and licks, tonguing at the head, licks until Enjolras is also impatient. When Enjolras fists his hands in Grantaire’s hair, Grantaire moves back and swallows him.

Grantaire is quite good at sucking cock, or so he’s told, but this is the most crucial mission of his life. Thankfully, it’s also the most enjoyable. Enjolras’ cock is a work of art, long and thick and perfect, his heady taste in Grantaire’s mouth. Grantaire could blow him for hours without respite. He pulls out every trick of his experience to make Enjolras groan and tighten his grip. Every indication of Enjolras’ pleasure rocks Grantaire.

At last Enjolras murmurs, “Grantaire, you should stop -- “ Grantaire can feel the build of it, “or I won’t be able to fuck you.”

Grantaire pulls away, not without a flourish. He stays on his knees. “Is that what you want?”

“I’m hoping it’s what we both want,” says Enjolras, diplomatic as he can be with an achingly hard cock. “As for me, yes.”

“Say it once, all together,” says Grantaire.

“I want to fuck you.” Enjolras reaches down, urges Grantaire up. Grantaire lets himself be pulled to his feet and pushed back towards the bed. 

Enjolras comes down on top of him, and Grantaire parts his legs and traps Enjolras between. Enjolras’ sweater is lost. It’s as dizzying to have access to Enjolras’ body as to his cock -- his cock, so hard against Grantaire’s belly. Grantaire struggles out of his t-shirt, to feel Enjolras against his skin. Enjolras is hot as a furnace, fired up, and he’s made of strong lines and firm muscle.

Grantaire touches him everywhere, starts in Enjolras’ hair and sweeps down his spine to his jaw-dropping ass. Grantaire palms his pecs, his washboard stomach, traces the cut of his hipbones. Enjolras responds catlike, half skittish and also revelling in touch, arching into Grantaire’s hands. 

Enjolras reaches between them to work on Grantaire’s belt and zipper, hair falling over his eyes, seeming concentrated on the task. Grantaire is being undressed. This is a good sign. Even better that Enjolras is the one to peel off his jeans when Grantaire puts up his hips. Grantaire only has to wriggle a little.

He’s hard, he’s been hard since Enjolras followed him up the stairs, since the car, he’s been ready to go off since the first touch of his tongue to Enjolras’ cock. Grantaire’s cock is hard and proud, substantial enough that Enjolras’ eyes go wide before they narrow. Then he looks terrifically resolved.

Enjolras’ hand grips Grantaire’s cock, slides from top to bottom, makes a ring there. He balances atop Grantaire, asks half a question against his cheek. “You have…?”

“Yeah. Left drawer.” Grantaire speaks, and Enjolras lets go of him, leans over to the bedside table, rummaging around. He tosses supplies onto the bed.

This is actually happening. Grantaire would feel weak in the knees if he wasn’t lying down, knees spread, Enjolras at their apex. Enjolras is uncapping lube and warming it in his hands.

“So,” starts Grantaire. This isn’t awkward. “Here we are.”

“Here we are,” agrees Enjolras. His thumb rubs wet against Grantaire, and he eases one finger inside him with careful finesse. Enjolras watches him, seeing how he takes it, takes his cue from the tension of Grantaire’s body. When Grantaire sighs and relaxes, Enjolras starts to ply his finger, makes space for more. 

Enjolras has two fingers in, and he knows how best to slide them. “You’re ridiculously tight.”

“I’ve had a dry spell,” Grantaire manages. This is happening. This is for real happening. Those are Enjolras’ fingers filling him up. “You drop me off. You see how successful I am.”

“I know,” says Enjolras, ducking his head to hide a smile. “I was moved at last. With pity.”

Grantaire groans and laughs at the same time. He lifts his hips to meet Enjolras’ tormenting hand, and they feel on more even ground. The sharp, acidic edge of humor sits right with them. 

“Ah,” says Grantaire thickly, “is that how I won you?” 

“To tell you the truth,” says Enjolras, then seems to hesitate. Luckily his hand does not: “I never thought you were serious. You often mock me about my lack of a sex life, and invite yourself into it in a vulgar fashion. I thought it was all a joke to you.” He twists his fingers, three now, and Grantaire’s whole body short-circuits. “Tonight, you seemed -- I don’t know. Sincere. Willing to give me a cup of coffee and have that be that.” A deeper twist, sparks. “I wanted more.”

“Did you decide to have sex with me when we were in the car, or was it in the kitchen?” It’s an odd detail, but Grantaire has to know. It’s mind-bending how much Enjolras seems to have thought about him. How much he's drawn his own set of Enjolrasian conclusions. 

“I decided that a while ago,” says Enjolras. He hints at adding a fourth finger, and Grantaire wants to howl. Then Enjolras is drawing out his fingers. He flexes his hand and reaches for the lube. “The opportunity presented itself.”

Enjolras pauses, giving Grantaire time to catch up. He looks impatient and scrupulously careful, instincts that keep each other in check until one wins out.

“I don’t know what to say to that,” admits Grantaire.

“Say that you want me to fuck you.” Enjolras has a condom in his hand, unopened, waiting. 

Grantaire looks from hand to Enjolras’ face. “I’m clean,” he says. “So if--” The sentence breaks apart when Enjolras lets it fall, a sign of trust and lust that staggers Grantaire. He can’t speak; he doesn’t know how to speak; his voice is lost and gone. Yet continuation is contingent upon his vocal request. This is a nightmare of Little Mermaid proportions. 

Grantaire goes up on his elbows instead, takes the lube away, and slicks Enjolras’ cock for him. His hand isn’t shaking. It isn’t. He pulls Enjolras’ cock and the rest of Enjolras follows into place. He's cradled in the crook of Grantaire’s thighs.

“Please,” says Grantaire.

There’s no going back from this. There’s no way back. Enjolras breaches him and thrusts inside. He’s big even after the preparation, and so aroused that all Grantaire’s air rushes out. 

Halfway in, Enjolras slows, his eyes snapped to Grantaire’s. He gathers Grantaire’s legs around his waist. He tilts Grantaire at an angle to receive the rest of his cock. Most guys don’t have the discipline to pull off the move, which turns the shock into shockwaves of pleasure. Enjolras hits just right on their first go.

Grantaire groans in appreciation, and only then does Enjolras pull back to repeat. This is happening. Enjolras is fucking into him, the biceps of his arms flexed with effort, his angelic face far from innocent. He bites his lip for restraint, and his eyes are electric. The same restless energy that crackles under his skin at rallies lights him up in bed. 

Grantaire meets him thrust for thrust, action for action, hip to hip. He’s got moves he’s pretty sure Enjolras has never seen, and he intends to make this unforgettable. He thinks it’s working. Knows it is. 

“Grantaire.”

His name has never sounded better; never, since Enjolras is compelled to pant it.

“Yes,” agrees Grantaire, “yes. Yes.”

“Just like this?”

“The same.” Grantaire gasps. “Don’t stop.” 

“I couldn’t.” Enjolras picks up speed instead.

It should be strange to have sex with your friend that you’ve been kind of in love with for forever. And, yeah, it’s not their normal, but it doesn’t matter because it’s too good. Sometimes sex is blah and sometimes you wish you were recording so that the whole internet can applaud along. Grantaire longs for a professional film crew. 

Chemistry, ruiner of relationships, is strong with them; even when they fight they have a rhythm. The rhythm of their fucking is as innate, instinctual. They seem to know just what the other wants, or perhaps their desires match. 

Grantaire tosses his head and arches up and urges Enjolras on and on, until they can’t go hard or deep enough. It’s too much and not enough. Grantaire makes a silent suggestion, and Enjolras pulls out in compliance. 

Grantaire turns onto his hands and knees. Enjolras is reaching for him already. He lines up his cock and sinks back in, as though the seconds spent apart were as unbearable for him as they were for Grantaire. 

It’s fantastically familiar now. The friction of skin on skin, the fronts of Enjolras’ thighs sealed with sweat to the backs of Grantaire’s. When he’s sheathed Enjolras doesn’t move. He holds there, hands spanning Grantaire’s waist. Held by Grantaire. He stays like that until Grantaire lets out a whine.

“Enjoying the view?”

“I like it quite a lot.” Enjolras restarts his course, but it’s slow and teasing, lazy thrusts that make Grantaire shiver all over. Grantaire’s never been had like this, with such certain, lingering possession. 

Enjolras fucks like he lives, with a point to be proven, a debate to be won. A people to be wooed. Fuck him, but Grantaire is convinced. It crosses his mind that this is all an effort to align Grantaire with the cause, and if so it is proceeding apace; he is aligned. With Enjolras’ cock the driving factor Grantaire will man any barricade and draw every protest sign. 

But he’d like to give himself a little credit, just a smidgen, that there’s more at work here than proselytizing. Behind him Enjolras’ breath emerges ragged. His nails bite into Grantaire’s skin in desperate half-moons. Enjolras is close to losing control, is clinging onto it with his fingertips.

Grantaire curves his spine, blessing yoga, then casts a look over his shoulder. Enjolras is wild to see. His hair is dark with exertion and sweat shines his chest. His eyes are burning. 

Grantaire says, “You know the really great thing about me is that you don’t have to be careful. Not to toot my own horn, but I can take it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Try me,” says Grantaire. 

Grantaire must sound earnest enough, because Enjolras falls heavily across his back. His hands settle over Grantaire’s hands. He threads their fingers together and pins Grantaire down. Enjolras drives into him, once, twice, again and again and again, each thrust angled to ignite them. It’s a primitive sort of posture, pulsing and primal. Grantaire can feel Enjolras’ teeth dragging on his neck, testing for a place to bite.

This isn’t difficult to take. This differs from regular rough sex. This feels like being claimed. Every time Enjolras moves inside is a declaration of intent. Grantaire opens his mouth to answer, but his voice betrays him again. No sound emerges save a soft cry, when Enjolras’ teeth make a sharp impression on his shoulder.

The plaintive noise seems to undo Enjolras entirely. He follows it with a last, desperate push, as though he could go deeper into Grantaire. He comes, triumphant, the battle won but unfinished: he’s pouring into Grantaire when he releases their hands and gets a grip around Grantaire’s cock. Enjolras fills him while performing this exquisite torment, and Grantaire shakes apart without warning. 

He doesn’t mean to exclaim Enjolras’ name but he exclaims it, and wet heat stripes his belly and Enjolras’ fist. Grantaire can see stars sent from ancient Gods and spots from breathing fast enough to hyperventilate. 

Enjolras holds through, then takes a while to ease free, as though he’s watching the process. The thought makes Grantaire cant his head to check. No. Enjolras is watching the fall of Grantaire’s hair, the cast of his cheek. 

Enjolras’ eyes meet his, unblinking. Then he pulls out with such deliberate slowness Grantaire wants to scream from the implied compliment. Enjolras doesn’t want to go. He’d stay in him if he could.

Enjolras licks his bitten lips and appears unbalanced. Grantaire reaches for his wrist and tugs him down to bed before he decides to go in the opposite direction. So guided, Enjolras relaxes; the tension leaves his shoulders, replaced by indulgent satisfaction. Sex makes him even more gorgeous, disheveled and debauched instead of upstanding. Grantaire wishes that he rocked this look more often. 

“Fuck,” articulates Grantaire eventually. They lie with sweat and come cooling on their bodies, examining the network of ceiling-cracks. Grantaire had painted them red and blue and purple, like veins. The ceiling thrums with color in the afterglow.

“You can say that again.”

“ _Putain_.” Grantaire is nothing if he isn’t an asshole, and he rolls sideways to grin at Enjolras. His grin must be Cheshire cat proportions. “Is it going to freak you out if I start comparing you to other sex gods? I’ve been wrong with the Apollo references. Apollo didn’t have much game. People kept turning into plants and trees to get away from him, which has to tell you something. Like, the God of the sun and music wants to sleep with you, and you’d rather be a laurel wreath? I bet he was a creep. No, you’re more of a Baldr. Totally hot, martyr complex, everyone loved him, and I have a feeling he was excellent in bed.”

Enjolras waits out the flow of words, floating on them, seeming unannoyed. Halfway through he closes his eyes and then he opens them when Grantaire is at a stopping point. He wears a small, pleased smile, wonderful to see; Grantaire wants to smooth his thumb across it. 

Enjolras says, “Thanks. I think.” There’s an unguarded softness to him that is as unexpected as the sex and as prized by Grantaire. Enjolras says, “I needed that. I didn’t know how much I needed that.”

“Anytime,” says Grantaire, who only adds _please for the love of Baldr_ in his head. He risks it, and runs his thumb across Enjolras’ lips, over his fine cheekbones, a gentle caress. Enjolras doesn’t startle. “I mean it,” says Grantaire. “I don’t want to sound flippant. I’m down for whatever.”

Enjolras considers, his eyebrows raised. For a moment Grantaire is positive he will demure; then he opens his mouth and says, “Will you let me fuck you again in an hour?”

Grantaire thrills at this response. “Let you? I’ll plan the celebratory parade.” 

Enjolras laughs, a rich, true sound that rallies men. Grantaire is already starting to feel rallied himself; the hour may not be needed. 

“Will you let me make the coffee in the morning?”

“I’m afraid that’s non-negotiable. A man’s coffeepot is his kingdom. He doesn’t just relinquish said kingdom into strange hands, no matter how persuasive the hands may be. Oh, yours are wicked. I’m spent, I say, spent.” 

“Are you sure?”

“You are the worst,” says Grantaire. “The absolute worst." He keeps up the accusation while Enjolras wrings a torturously delicious second orgasm from Grantaire using his mouth and tongue and fingers. 

When neither of them can stand it any longer, Enjolras enters him. It has been only forty minutes. This time, Enjolras can’t last long. But his strokes are purposeful and intimate, and he won’t look from Grantaire’s face while he fucks him. He leans down and kisses Grantaire’s mouth while he does. A strange first kiss, but mutually desired. Grantaire curls his hand into Enjolras’ hair to keep him there. They don’t stop kissing until they come.

Collapsing anew, exhausted, exhilarated, they fit together at shoulder and knee.

“In the morning we can arm-wrestle for coffee privileges,” offers Grantaire. He has a comfortable faceful of pillow and a backboard of hot Enjolras. 

“Something like that,” says Enjolras, master of the sexy threat.

Grantaire falls asleep to the sound of his own heart pounding, with Enjolras’ arm looped around him. He sleeps well.

In the morning Grantaire is aware of two pertinent items. The early afternoon sun, indicating it is not morning at all, and the pressing length of Enjolras’ cock against his ass. 

Grantaire is so awake. Enjolras shifts unsubtly.

“Morning. Afternoon,” yawns Grantaire. “You couldn’t possibly.”

“Couldn’t I,” returns Enjolras. He kisses Grantaire’s shoulder, then reaches to bend Grantaire’s leg at the knee. His finger is wet when it slides into Grantaire, finding Grantaire more than ready. 

Enjolras is quick to ascertain this, and replace finger with cock. He thrusts sideways. Their bodies interlock. Grantaire wonders how long Enjolras has been awake, how long he’s lain next to him and waited to do this. The thought and the activity make Grantaire moan. 

He’s sore after their late night, but this is more than worth it. To tell the truth he likes the burn, the rawness of flesh that refuses to quit. While he slept Grantaire felt hollow, even with the proof of Enjolras nearby. Now awake, taking Enjolras back inside him, Grantaire is complete. It scares the hell out of him to say so, so he shuts his eyes, and only thinks about it.

“I dreamed that I fucked you like this,” says Enjolras, conversational, “on a thin bed of straw. All was dark. There were candles flickering, and sometimes, in the distance, shouting.”

“How theatrical,” says Grantaire, lending his lower body to tight circles. Usually it’s boring to hear people recount their dreams. He’ll listen to Enjolras read a thesaurus if it means they never have to come apart. 

“You told me that I could, and showed me how, then turned onto your side. I was gripped by fear and doubt. I knew nothing of the kind. And you said, ‘Go on, Enjolras; you should live before you die,’ and that made me angry, because I knew you were right.”

“Whoa, even rustic dream-me’s a bitch,” says Grantaire. “Nice continuity.”

Enjolras quickens his motion, laughing. “Well, it worked in the dream, also. I got my act together and did you on the pallet.”

“Holy shit. Is this, like, a thing you’re into? Are we talking Medieval Times costumes? I could get a hat with a feather in it. Stocking tights. No plastic tiaras, I promise. Every person according to their needs and ability in the sack.”

“Shush,” says Enjolras, while he nibbles on Grantaire’s earlobe, “you blaspheme. Or else, if you know the whole part--”

“Baby, if it’s the origins of Marxist ideology you want in bed, I’ll quote you the original French. Then we’ll do German.”

And, oh. Enjolras _does_ want that.

Much, much later, when they drag themselves free of sheets, they share the coffee duties. Enjolras grinds beans to an envious consistency, and Grantaire produces the brew. 

They sip at the table, bleary-eyed, soon refreshed. They agree that it has been a brilliant collaboration. 

“Socialism in action,” says Grantaire, toasting their mugs together. “Suck it, Max Eastman.”

Enjolras shuts him up with his mouth, which is even better than arguing radical economic philosophy. He tastes of the blend they made, and of sex and sleep, their shared hours. 

“Tired yet?” asks Grantaire.

“Try me,” says Enjolras. “The coffee just kicked in.”


End file.
